


In Cold Blood

by gaiboi1



Category: Friday the 13th Series (Movies)
Genre: M/M, Or as fluffy as it can get, Probably sex eventually, So not that fluffy, Violence, mostly just fluffy stuff, probably slow updates, very slow build
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-10
Updated: 2018-10-10
Packaged: 2019-07-28 21:04:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16249763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gaiboi1/pseuds/gaiboi1
Summary: Mishka - now known as Jonathan - has lead a terrible life, but found purpose through the hardship and is now a contract killer for an underground network. He doesn't question it when they assign him a target, and is brutally efficient in his job. Everything is running normally until he gets a new target who, unbeknownst to him, will prove to be agonizingly difficult in more ways than one.The name of his next hit? Jason Voorhees.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first work and my first real attempt at writing seriously.  
> Comment if I can improve anything and I'll try to apply it to future chapters.  
> Kudos are optional.

The foggy mirror dripped as the water from the steaming shower condensed on the chilled glass, creating depressive streaks down the reflective surface. A small figure stepped out off the scalding stream, closing the glass shower door and shutting off the pumps as they did so. Without hesitation, the individual - a boy in his late-teens - walked to the mirror, neglecting to wrap himself with a towel. Bringing up a calloused hand, he wiped the water off of the smooth glass, looking at himself with icy blue eyes that held little signs of life. The complexion of his milky skin was clear and boyish, while his actual epidermis showed signs that his youthful appearance was deceiving and that he'd led a long and arduous life thus-far: scars dotted his sternal region and upper arm, while his most noticeable infliction was on his face. A thick, ugly scar separated the 2 ends of his left eyebrow and continued on, ending at the inferior edge of his superciliary arch. It picked up again at the superior portion of his cheekbone, cutting very deep there, before abruptly ending. The fissure in his cheek was so deep and debilitating that his buccinator was now partially defective, rendering him unable to properly smile on his left side and impairing his speech. He hardly smiled anyway, so the loss of that particular motor movement was of no importance to him. He also rarely spoke, so that was no great loss either.

Despite his small mass, his physique was exemplary, as was his muscle tone, loosely resembling that of a world-class athlete. Though he never in his life participated in any sort of athletic activity, he did train his body to the limits of what humans were capable of handling, and then pushed it even further. His hyper-fixation on training himself to such seemingly inhumane levels was due primarily to 2 things: is current career and his past.

His name was Mishka Kurakov, and he was born in 1971 on the western end of the USSR. He lived in a small agricultural village until he was 6, when the Red Army came and took them all away before burning their village. Him, his family, and all of his neighbors were taken to an industrial factory to work on what he now knows were weapons, likely adding to the arms race at the time between the Soviets and the Americans. They lived at the factory and were given the bare minimum to survive on, and very likely Mishka would've died had he not escaped one year later at the age of 7. Despite his young age, he'd been developing the same emotionless, empty persona that now defined his character, as he knew while running away that he was never going to see the people he loved ever again, whether they were dead or not, and was unusually fine with that.

Mishka managed to survived in the unforgiving Russian wilderness for 5 months until he was eventually found and rescued, and his saviors initially thought him feral because of his mute nature and icy demeanor, but eventually came to the realization that he was silent by choice and perfectly civil to an extent. In time, he learned that he'd crossed out of heavy Soviet territory and into neighboring Yugoslavia, and didn't realize that his amazing story and developing psychopathic tendencies were drawing the attention of very powerful people, looking for individuals like him.

For about a year he was kept at an orphanage for boys, much to the distaste of psychiatric doctors, who felt that something was off about him and that he could be a danger to the other children. While he never hurt another person in the home and was always well behaved, they were right in assuming he was dangerous, and most of the orphanage's staff and the other orphans were deeply unsettled by him anyways. It was on a regular, monotonous day that his life irreversibly changed. He was sitting in an armchair, staring at but not really watching a cartoon playing on the home's lone television. Rather, he was listening to the noises around him. Listening to the joyful laughter of some of the kids and the wails of the less than happy tenets. Listening to the footsteps both above and around them, the lighter ones belonging to children and the heavier ones belonging to the adults keeping watch over them. Listening to the obnoxious, giddy voice of the animated character on the screen and the equally as exaggerated music backtracking them. It all caused Mishka to introspect for a moment, to consider his own humanity, but no matter how hard he looked and listened, within himself he saw nothing, heard nothing, and felt nothing.

"Mishka?" The somewhat nervous inquiry brought him out of his vegetative state, and he turned his head to acknowledge the visitor. There stood a middle-aged woman in a non-revealing, bland tan dress. He recognized her immediately as the woman in charge of adoptions, which meant only one thing: someone wanted to meet him. Likely they didn't know who he was and thought he was going to be a sweet, talkative little boy, or they thought they could fix him. Both of his assumtions were incorrect. The lady was visibly shaken, probably due to a mixture of someone wanting to adopt him and also at the concept that she was going to have to make contact with him to bring him to her office. Mishka didn't care, but what the woman said next shocked him and he almost - almost - showed it, "Someone wants to adopt you... you specifically..." He sat there for a moment longer before deciding not to question it (he wouldn't have spoken anyways), then got up and took the lady's tentatively outstretched hand.

She lead him to her small office, and upon opening the door Mishka saw a man looking at him rather expectantly. The look told Mishka everything he needed to know: this man knew what Mishka was, and wanted him because of that. He sat wordlessly while the man - who was dressed rather professionally in a full 3-piece suit - tried to get him to talk, but didn't seem at all disappointed by the returning silence. After some paperwork was filed, Mishka was led out of the office and subsequently the orphanage by this strange person, and upon reaching the man's car the mystery deepened, but once again Mishka couldn't care less. He was driving a Stutz Blackhawk, which the young boy knew was an expensive luxury vehicle at the time. He'd read a lot on cars in the home's surprisingly large library, more out of boredom than genuine interest, and in his blooming intelligence had managed to catalog countless numbers of cars in his head.

As soon as Mishka and the man were alone in the vehicle, everything changed. He'll never forget what his adoptive "parent" had said: "Your name is Jonathan, and you work for us now." That was how it started, and he was flown to the States to begin his training. They started him off with rather easy exercises before developing into more painful, stressful workouts. The trainers were obviously instructed to disregard his young age, and despite the agony that racked his body after every session, he refused to cry. While this was going on, he was also trained extensively in cultures and languages, with his first mastered language - aside from his native tongue of Russian - being English. He was taught how to blend into crowds of varying cultures, how to act like he belonged in whatever country he might find himself in. From day 1 he was told exactly what he was practicing to become: a contract killer. Not in the practical sense of killing someone who was merely an inconvenience, but rather to silence someone who posed a serious threat to a group of people. Dictators, drug lords, horribly corrupt political figures, etc... The revelation he was to be essentially a murderer didn't bother him in the slightest, and once again he felt nothing. 

His physical training continued, even after his cultural lessons had ended. Languages were always easy for him, and the people in charge of the facility that housed him were confident he could keep studying independently. Next, they moved him into various combative exercises. Simultaneously, he was instructed in self-defensive techniques, hand-to-hand combat, combat with hand held weapons, and arms. He picked up self-defense and combat quickly enough, but dealing with guns was initially difficult. However, as he started to make connections and spot similarities between different guns and their various models, he quickly learned how to dismantle, assemble, and fire various weapons. By the age of 10 he was considered an expert marksman, and it wasn't too much longer that he got his first assignment at the age of 11. It was a few months before he was to turn 12, and he was to track down and eliminate a drug lord in Venezuela. By the time he reached the new year in his life, Mishka had blood on his hands - from the boss of the cartel and any of its members that had been unfortunate enough to have gotten in his way.

After that, Mishka had officially been indoctrinated into whatever order he belonged to as a hunter, a killer. He didn't know who they were, only that they had connections all over the globe. As with most things, he couldn't find the motivation to care about his lack of information: the job paid ridiculously well, the security was top-notch, and the satisfaction was everything.

-

The 18 year old Mishka - now legally Jonathan - tore his eyes away from himself in the mirror and walked into his bedroom. The penthouse he lived in was a great benefit to his career, and his bedroom showed off his considerable wealth and status. His king sized foam mattress was piled high with pillows, nearly obscuring the faux-marble headboard. The blankets were an expensive silk, and were draped messily over the bed. He pondered lying down for maybe a few more minutes, but decided against it upon checking his calendar. He was almost obsessive-compulsive in keeping it organized and updated, and crossed off the previous day before glancing at the current day's date: May 18, 1989. The only thing in the large space was a small blue box, and Jonathan's heart started beating just a bit harder in what he figured long ago must be his body's only way to express some semblance of happiness. That insignificant blue square was a signal for the young man, as it meant that his next assignment would be arriving. After months of gathering sufficient information (marked by a green square back a few pages in March), whatever HQ he took his orders from was finally ready to give him the details. 

He dressed himself eagerly, anxious to get downstairs to find out who his next victim will be. He settled on matching nondescript black pants and a black button-up shirt. He exited his bedroom, rushing down the stairs into his very open living room. White was the primary color of choice, despite the very colorful decade that was coming to a close. The sun was rising outside, creating a beautiful silhouette of the New York City skyline and painting his monotone living quarters a warm, beautiful tangerine. Jonathan, having no tastes regarding aesthetics, ignored the beautiful sunrise and skyline and instead focused his attention on a decent sized yellow enveloped sitting on his couch (which was also quite bland). Unconsciously, he sped up walking towards it, almost buzzing with the energy running through him. Picking up the package, he impatiently tore into it, pulling out the rather hefty stack of papers concealed within. Jonathan furiously flipped through the pages as he sat down, looking for a page that basically gave a summary of whoever he was to kill. He found it midway through, and after studying it for a few seconds raised one eyebrow in confusion.

According to this sheet, his target has already died once before. On top of that, there are no pictures, merely descriptions and eyewitness accounts.  
-Date of Birth: June 13, 1946  
-Date of Death: June 13, 1957  
-Cause of Death: Drowning  
He was 11 when he apparently died, and Jonathan remarked that he had died on his birthday. He felt nothing, once again, but acknowledged that it is still a sad notion. He also noticed that the boy's body was never recovered, pointing out that he may have survived his purported death.  
-Height: 6'5"  
-Weight: Est. >250 lbs  
-Physical Description: Commonly seen wearing a hockey mask with red chevrons; uses a machete in most of his murders and carries it around; severe craniofacial deformities (Hydrocephalus, Cleft Palate...)  
Jonathan skims through the paper, finding the man's kill-count both remarkable and impressive, with this man having been confirmed to have killed 146 people. Although, between disappearances in the area and circumstantial evidence stacking up, its believed to be in excess of 250. 

Unfazed by what he's read, Jonathan feels the usual warm arrow of energy travel down his spine and through his body, but he can't help but notice something else, too. Deep within his mind is a feeling - an intuition - that this case was going to be unlike anything he's ever done before, and more difficult too. For the first time in his life, the lack of information provided is bugging him, and it leaves him feeling a new kind of anxiety: he's nervous, and he hates it. With a refreshed resolve forming within him, Jonathan determinedly stares at the name of his newest project.  
-Name: Jason Elias Voorhees


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tried adding a bit more personality to Jonathan in this chapter, as I got some people calling him bland. I still want him to be rather stoic, but I want to make it more apparent that it's a choice on his part and not always a perfect system.  
> Once again, feel free to comment and provide constructive criticism. Don't be rude just because you don't like it please! If there are issues in my writing please tell me and I will do my best to adjust and keep it in mind.  
> Kudos are optional.

He’d stayed in his house for another week, prepping for the trip and keeping all scenarios in mind. Packing didn’t take long, with Jonathan only bringing some clothes and toiletries, so he saved it until the day of his departure. An advantage of him keeping his home rather empty and minimalistic was he didn’t get attached to furniture or to the feel of things. The only thing he might miss would be his bed, as that had been the only thing he’d let himself splurge on. As he looked at it before leaving his bedroom, he acknowledged he should feel some level of sadness and longing, but that was as close to the real emotions as he ever got. He did consider bringing a pillow, though, and after a few minutes of deliberation reopened his single piece of luggage and stuffed a small one inside.

He didn’t linger in the penthouse for too long, and within 2 hours he had crossed the George Washington Bridge, leaving New York behind and heading to New Jersey for his assignment. He’d done some further investigation during his preparatory period, and this individual – Jason – had quite a track record. He knew how many people he’d killed, but wanted further demographics on those unfortunate souls unlucky enough to find themselves at the end of this killer’s blade. The ages of Jason’s victims ranged anywhere from 17 at the youngest while the oldest were in their 60s, but the majority of victims were between the ages of 18 to 23. Being of a similar mindset to what he pictured Jason to be and having encountered many normal people within this criteria, Jonathan was able to piece together the reasoning for this age group being the most unlucky: sex. Unlike a conventional serial murderer who might kill and torture for sexual gain, it seems as though his target was vehemently against it. This initially confused him and he believed there to be some other explanations, but further research had provided him with sufficient information to confirm his suspicion.

Jason was born to Pamela and Elias Voorhees, and was horribly deformed at birth. Shortly post-partum, Jason’s father abandoned him and Pamela, leaving them desperate and penniless. Jonathan reasoned this might have given a reason for why Jason seemed to dislike relationships and subsequently coital conduct, as his mother might’ve raised him with the ideology that relationships and such were corrupt and untrue, but it still didn’t explain why he would be pushed to such violence and display such extreme amounts of hate, especially concerning sex. While reading articles, he noted that a lot of his victims were killed during the act, like they were targeted specifically for what Jason must believe is a crime. The answer to Jonathan’s big question came much later in Jason’s life, or rather, at the end of it. Pamela was a chef at Camp Crystal Lake, and had to take Jason with her because they couldn’t afford a long-term babysitter (Jonathan also figures no babysitter wanted to watch the boy either). While his mom was busy in the kitchen, Jason somehow got into the lake, unable to swim. Jonathan figures it might’ve been the reckless self-destructive nature a child usually has or an act of cruelty by others. The counselors on duty that day were nowhere to be seen, and young Jason Voorhees was swallowed by the water on June 13, 1957 – his 11 th birthday. A desperate and grieving Pamela accused the counselors who’d been assigned to watch Jason, saying they’d been off “fooling around” when her son drowned. All in all, that was likely. Their ages? 19 and 20. Right in Jason’s target range.

After this revelation, the pieces clicked into place as to why this seemingly undead murderer targeted both young adults and anyone he might encounter who happens to be engaged in rather passionate coitus. Murdering also seemed to run in the family, as separate articles had detailed the ventures of his mother and her own killing spree. The first article reported the discovered bodies of 2 camp counselors, caught in the act and then killed by an unknown assailant. The 2 counselors were the  
ones Pamela accused of not watching Jason, and a subsequent article discussing how Mrs. Voorhees was revealed to have killed all but one counselor completed the already obvious connection. It wasn’t hard to put 2 and 2 together, and Jonathan deduced that Pamela had killed the 2 counselors first, and then took her revenge on the camp when it reopened by murdering the counselors and forcing it to close before it even really opened. At the end of the article, it said that one of the counselors – a young woman named Alice – had managed to survive by decapitating Pamela with a machete.

Now, nearly nearing 40 years both after Jason’s purported death and Pamela’s killing spree, possibly over 200 people have met their fate in the territory of the camp, which was rather odd to him. Jason stuck strictly to the boundaries of the territory and never left it, almost – in a twisted sense – like its guardian. Should anyone enter his territory, he kills them. They stay out, and he couldn’t care less. He thought rather blandly that the local or state law enforcement should’ve done something about that by now: just close off the camp; border its perimeters with fences and prevent people from getting in. At the very least he’d figure that people would gain some common sense and stop going to the camp and the surrounding forest, regardless of whatever treasures they thing might be waiting for them in there. 

But alas, people were born idiots and would likely die equally as stupid, and now he has to go take care of this Jason before he can claim too many more lives.

-

8 hours later, Jonathan passes a sign on the side of the road, and written cheerfully in white paint is “Crystal Lake, New Jersey.” It’s a rather giddy and fun looking cursive print that almost makes him want to try smiling. You’d never think that this town holds a secret as big and as ugly as Jason Voorhees – both figuratively and apparently literally – but here he is. Jonathan takes the exit, slowing down from highway speed as he rides through the surrounding forest. He doesn’t have a soft spot for  
too much in his life, but the wilderness and the forest has always claimed a place in his otherwise unfeeling heart and soul. There’s just something about being among the trees, engulfed by the nonthreatening and silent life of plants, which calms him. He wishes he had his mother’s gift of botanical wisdom. She’d could grow anything she got her hands on, and blurry childhood memories of him smelling flowers of all colors, shapes, and sizes flutters into his head. This recollection of his mother and  
his childhood is welcome, and the right side of his lips twitch upwards (his left side remains characteristically motionless), signaling his internal conflict.

He comes across as emotionless, and for the most part he truly is. His psychopathy, while likely having some hereditary anchorage, is primarily developmental. He’s not even sure if he can call himself a psychopath, more like a schizoid person, but even that doesn’t cover it. He’d given up going to psychiatrists long ago, and didn’t care about what was fundamentally flawed about him, so he’d given up on his quest of self-realization. Happiness is, for him, the feeling of adrenaline running through his blood. He hasn’t experienced enough genuine happiness to gauge what sensations run through him, and these childhood memories offer him some insight into real emotion.

The thought of his mother gardening and the smell of the flowers makes him – in a tiny yet immeasurably significant way – happy. It’s a warm feeling, almost fuzzy in his chest. He can feel it behind his eyes and his heart, enveloping him in a gentle glow. The feeling passes too soon for him, and in the last milliseconds before the emotion vanishes he can feel the heavy blanket of sadness descending upon him, but his mind shuts the door to it before it can take hold. Jonathan chose to be this way, unfeeling and cold to such an extent. He would’ve died when he was 7 if he hadn’t learned to shut the world out, and knew that the only thing behind the metaphorical door in his soul was pain and sadness. Maybe one day he would let it out, but he wasn’t planning on that day coming any time within the next 20 years or more. He would allow these small, episodic feelings to give him some sense of mortality, but other than that he was closed off, both to himself and to the people around him.

The forest starts to open, and a picturesque town comes into view. The buildings are a variety of soft pastel colors, placed next to each other in a fashion not unlike every other small town in America. A few small alleys and streets created gaps between the commercial buildings, and down those breaks were quaint little houses. A church was also present, of course, and despite it being Thursday at 6 p.m. there were cars parked in the small adjoining lot and along the road. Jonathan himself was atheist, having no need for religion in his life. He doesn’t remember if his parents were involved religiously, and within his mind he can once again feel sadness knocking. He notes that there’s a grocery store, a post office, a hardware store, a diner, a jeweler, and a variety of other convenience options. A few people are walking the streets, turning their heads curiously to watch him continue down the street. He can feel himself flush red at the unwanted attention, and he mentally shakes off the social anxiety rising up within him. He hated people, for a variety of reasons, but he especially hated the sensations they gave him when he was their center of attention for any length of time.

At the end of the commercial zone on his left is the town hall, and he parallel parks on the empty left sidewalk. He was instructed that he’d be masquerading as a vacationer, and that his cabin would be just slightly outside of Jason’s marked territory. Stepping out of the car, he felt his social anxiety peak and his external temperature rise as a woman across the street saw his face – and thus his scar. She stopped immediately, rudely gawking at him. He gave her a weak smile – or at least tried to – before closing the car door and jogging around the vehicle to the hall’s door. He opened the entryway, feeling a delighted shiver run through him as the air-conditioned interior conflicted on his currently very heated frame. There was a small information table within the rather cramped room, manned by a lonely woman in a professional dress. She looked up at him with a smile that faltered upon reaching his profile. Mustering as much warmth as he could, he returned the smile in his lopsided manner. It seemed to creep out the woman even more, so he dropped it. Clearing his throat to speak, he inquired about his address. “I just rented a house for the summer. 1665 Cherry Avenue? I wondered if I could have some directions.” He cringed at his voice, his faulty left cheek slurring his speech horribly. His natural tone was also quite high for a male, and he- during a rare moment of a sort of humor – remarked that he sounded like a drunk Cher. She visibly relaxed as he spoke, but was still tense as she responded. “Just continue down this road and make a right when you can next. It should be the last cabin there.”

Jonathan thanked her, slightly impressed at her memory of where the cabin was. He supposed that she must have been working there long enough to get a good idea of the layout of Crystal Lake. Getting back into his vehicle (without the added stress of any nearby pedestrians staring at him), he followed her directions, taking the next right and finally setting his sights on where he’d be staying for who-knows-how-long.

The cabin was quite cozy in appearance, and Jonathan already felt himself gravitating towards the homey vibes it was radiating. He ignored the sensations, keeping himself under control. In some alternate reality, if things turned out differently, he could totally see himself living in a place like this. It was small, but not too much so. Obviously meant for only 1 or 2 people, which was preferred as well. It wasn’t every day that an opportunity to explore his tastes presented itself, and he figured he could take it this time around. Even he was prone to boredom, so it would be a good distraction to test out his interior decorating skill. He wasn’t too worried about completing his task at once, and his instructions had even said to get settled in and observe for a while, figure out how Jason operated.

He parked his car in the drive, getting out, retrieving his suitcase, and strolling to the door, running his hand along the rough exterior wood as he approached. The logs appeared to be genuine, and also looked like they might’ve been sourced from the woods around him. The lady in town hall had also provided Jonathan with a key, and after fidgeting with the lock for a few seconds he was at last able to open the door. He instantly noticed the weird layout of the house, as the front entrance opened up into the cabin’s kitchen. Shaking off his surprise, he took in the room. The appliances were updated, and the style was very rustic, giving him a small jolt. He was so used the more contemporary and minimalistic design of his penthouse, the cluttered yet cozy nature of this cabin so was a weird – yet oddly welcome – difference. Exiting the kitchen, the living quarters were organized in the same haphazard yet fluid method, once again employing a rustic design choice. The couch was rather bulky,  
and looked tempting and comfortable. He resisted the urge to call it a day there, instead opting to save that for the bedroom, which was where he headed next.

Needless to say, the cabin’s lone bedroom was much smaller than his back home, but felt somehow more comfortable and familiar. The sight of the fluffy bed draped in countless numbers of blankets with plethora of equally as soft looking pillows pushed the suddenly exhausted Jonathan over the edge. He was abruptly drained of energy, and all he could really do was get his lone pillow from his luggage. With his limbs feeling like they were weighed down with chains, he crawled onto the bed, not bothering with the blankets. It was just as soft and welcoming as he had hoped, and he clutched his brought-along pillow to his chest rather than resting it beneath his head. Curling up into a fetal position, Jonathan let the peaceful veil of a dreamless sleep fall down upon him.

-

Jason stood motionless, staring at a car parked in front of a cabin, wondering what this meant. People hardly ever came this early in the year, and regardless of how many people were coming for the summer this cabin was always unoccupied. It was too close to his territory for his liking, but far enough away that he couldn’t do anything about whoever was inhabiting it. He dismissed the uncertainty growing within him, deciding that whoever was there now was fine so long as they stayed away, but he couldn’t help but get a feeling – similar to Jonathan’s own intuition – that this was going to be something new and something difficult.


End file.
